song—by allan stream
by allan stream i chanc'd to rove,
while phoebus sank beyond benledi;
the winds are whispering thro' the grove,
the yellow corn was waving ready:
i listen'd to a lover's sang,
an' thought on youthfu' pleasures mony;
and aye the wild-wood echoes rang—
“o, dearly do i love thee, annie!
“o, happy be the woodbine bower,
nae nightly bogle make it eerie;
nor ever sorrow stain the hour,
the place and time i met my dearie!